


Brought in warm

by AliceUndergroundandorAlisonWonderland



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Age Difference, Butterfly Effect, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Master/Slave, No Beta, Protective Mandalorian, Protectiveness, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slavery, Slow Burn, So Much Sexual Tension, There Is Only One Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, dying like men and all that jazz, no y/n, non descript reader - Freeform, protective Din
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceUndergroundandorAlisonWonderland/pseuds/AliceUndergroundandorAlisonWonderland
Summary: The Mandalorian judged you with the nous of a predator assessing its prey’s worth where you had been thrown to the ground at his feet.”This is our down payment to you. She’s healthy and a hard worker, probably worth about five thousand credits.”Drawing his heavy gaze from your quivering shoulders to Omera’s tight and tall posture, the Mandalorian pinned her with a sharp query.“What use would I have for ‘a healthy hard worker’?”The woman flushes but doesn’t falter, “We don’t think she’s much older than twenty.”What a clever way to answer such sharp interrogation without speaking words that would dirty her mouth.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 73
Kudos: 413





	1. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian judged you with the nous of a predator assessing its prey’s worth where you had been thrown to the ground at his feet.
> 
> ”This is our down payment to you. She’s healthy and a hard worker, probably worth about five thousand credits.”
> 
> Drawing his heavy gaze from your quivering shoulders to Omera’s tight and tall posture, the Mandalorian pinned her with a sharp query.
> 
> “What use would I have for ‘a healthy hard worker’?”
> 
> The woman flushes but doesn’t falter, “We don’t think she’s much older than twenty.”
> 
> What a clever way to answer such sharp interrogation without speaking words that would dirty her mouth.

“It's not enough.”

Din threw a hefting crate of MRE rations to the mossy ground, ignoring the flinching villagers watching him work. They’d been trying, desperately, to draw bargains for a half hour despite the bounty hunter making abundantly clear that their credits held no worth to him. Exchanging anxious looks, the boys continued to fumble for his help.

“We’re krill farmers, this is all we have. The whole village put in funds.”

Reaching for his last box, Din considered how hard the timorous pair would be to scare off. Shooting at them would be excessive and a waste of ammunition, perhaps a shove would serve best. At his turned back the taller, slightly braver, man stepped forwards. 

“If the credits aren't enough, we can give you a place to stay?”

Bending by his knee to drop the supplies, tension locked through broad shoulders as Din’s patience pulled thin. 

“No.”

The shuffle of pensive feet in the grass behind him was like nails on glass to the Mandalorian. He had no time for the stroppy young men hassling him about their village being the target of bandits. The kid would be getting restless by now. 

“Please, we’ll find a way t-”

Back at his full height and turned around in half a second, Din gave a slight but purposeful shove against the boy's chest. He didn't expect the light attack to leave the teen flat on his backside and winded. The warrior blinked, clearly not knowing his own strength when it was set against civilians. 

Already seeming like a monster, Din supposed he might as well keep up with the expectation. 

“I told you, no. I’m not interested in your credits, your village, or anything else you have to offer.” 

He could have added, ‘now leave’ but the trembling pair clearly understood words unspoken as they clutched at one another and clamoured to get far, far away from the hunter. If the entirety of their village was made up of equally lion hearted persons, Din hardly blamed the raiders for abusing such easy pickings. 

Staggering to a transport that was twenty years older than either of them, the boys seemed to feel they couldn't escape fast enough as the un-winded one cranked the machine into its highest speed. Din watched as they rattled away, carriage just barely slim enough to fit between trees. It was five minutes until they were far enough out of sight that the Mandalorian allowed himself to move. 

Stopping his body into absolute stillness was a skill Din had needed years to properly master. Letting the beskar stare down an opponent while Din’s form gave away nothing of his humanity was a more difficult task than it looked. His feet always wanted to shift, fingers itching to twitch, but any amount of fiddling would sever the tension cut-out by his intimidating figure. 

Stepping up into the Razor Crest’s cargo hold, Din ducked behind the ladder that fed up into the cockpit. Tapping in a three-digit code to the rustic keyboard fitted against what looked to be a solid wall, he waited for a show of seams and hiss of decompression. The invisible door concealing the hatch that hid the Child slid away upward, unveiling Din’s charge to him. 

Blinking inky eyes so entrancing they were galaxies in miniature, it gazed up to the Mandalorian with interest. The green bundle wasn't at all startled by his nurse’s sudden appearance or the loud noise that accompanied it. Inclining his head aside, he gargled and lifted his arms in a want to be picked up. Din obliged while wondering, not for the first time, where the being had learned the gesture and expected reaction. 

“You hungry yet, womp rat?”

Ears lifted like adjusting sails told Din that, yes, he was hungry. Weighing nothing to one of his arms, the foundling’s eyes search the world from over Din’s shoulder, curious at the slight changes he found. It was a clear instinct of preservation, checking his surroundings for predators. 

“Nothing big enough to eat you on Sorgan, kid.” 

Lifting them up the ladder one handed, Din also checked his periphery even though there was no plausible way anything could have gotten past him while he had worked outside. Best to be safe than sorry.

There were no lurking shadows or snarling beasts huddled into the cockpits corners when it’s floor came level with Din’s sight line. Only the baby’s pram and captain’s chair stood apart to the warrior as he placed the Child down in the former.

The worn leathery seat looked temptingly comfortable to Din after an evening spent on his feet. He’d reward himself with taking rest in it after finishing his last few tasks. Skipping the ladder as he often did, Din leapt down the cargo hold, walking the few paces that brought him to the kitchenette.

Rummaging through the single overstuffed cabinet mounted on a slight slant above the sink, he found a sachet of bone gravy. The kid preferred broth soups and mushy spoon feedable pastes to the ration bars that Din usually ate. He could understand why the little frog didn't like them, often times even Din struggled to bite through the dry sticks.

Tapping the sashes powdered contents into the smallest dish he owned, Din ran the sink’s faucet on hot for a few seconds before adding more than the recommended amount of water to the gravy paste. Searching the draining board for something to mix in the remaining clumps, Din found the same delicate dessertspoon he had used to feed the Child yesterday.

Mixing briskly, the Mandalorian wondered whether it was a mistake for him to have rejected the villagers so harshly. Maybe he should have taken their offer of housing even if the pouch of credits wouldn't buy him more than one single-use piece of equipment. 

Tapping the spoon clean on the bowl’s side, Din reasoned that what ifs were no good to dwell on. He had scared both boys thoroughly enough that neither them nor anyone else from their krill farming village would come to bother him again. Drawing attention to his whereabouts by uprooting a cluster of bandits would do more harm than good. Din was on Sorgan to law low with the kid for a few months, and no offer made by anyone would change that plan.

~~~~ A ~~~~ 

You saw how deeply unbalanced the last raid left the villagers when they voted to send a transport and two of their own into the woods. It made you pensive how irrational they’d become over such an easily fixed issue. You’d give your solution to Omera after every attack; dig steep ditches along the tree line then fit the bottoms of them with sharpened wooden pikes. She never listened to you. No one in the village would listen to a foreign witch. 

Toeing at the marble Winta lent you to fiddle with that morning, you lean your weight against the thick wooden door of your mud hut cell. The evening air was cool against your skin as it lifted through the fortified mound in an irregular strong breeze. The scents that carried on it were wrong, tasting too much like copper on your tongue. Calves smoothed upward as you lifted taller on tiptoes, spying through a wide gap at the doors top. 

By the looming forest’s edge, you could see figures waiting on the return of their scouts. Your palms felt clammy where they grasped at the door. What did they hope for? Had the elders finally concluded that the last and only solution to the raids were negotiation? The grotesque blue orcs who tore through the farmer's land every fortnight wouldn't be reasoned with, that you thought would be obvious. 

Your captors were simple folk, civil enough to you and smart enough to live in the secluded conditions of Sorgan without perishing. Something they weren’t was battle savvy. Not one of them had any idea about strategy, preparation, defence, or analytics. You’d be confident to bet that there was not one blaster in the entire plantation, nor a villager fit to use it. 

You tried to help, had offered to fight countless times, but they never let you; somehow convinced that the moment you had your freedom you would turn on them and join the enemy. It wasn't an unfair assumption to conclude. The way you’d conducted yourself when you first arrived on Sorgan had been less than trustworthy. 

You were too tired to stay awake much longer, even with the second hand anxieties getting your adrenaline up. Two more minutes then you had to rest. A tingling sting started to prickle in your legs from the way you stood so strenuously on your toes. Less than a year ago you could have held far more elaborate poses and felt no discomfort. Being kept in a dark hut and only let out a few minutes each day for a passive walk had taken devastating tolls on your physical aptness.

Omera was who took you out for afternoon strolls, often times letting you sit and soak up the sun without too close supervision. She would always strike up conversation with you in tight-lipped civility, awkwardly looking for mutual bridging interests to discuss. Despite her efforts and months of dialogue not one alike experience had been discovered by either she or you. Twenty years the woman's junior, your erratic nomadic existence contrasted against her firmly rooted identity with no relatability. 

While it was depriving to have no one who understood you or your travels, occasional lonesomeness is far better to you than the risk of exposure. This sheltered little village had no perception about the wars screaming over its head dusk to dawn. They didn’t know Clone Troopers, the Empire, Leia Organa's Rebellion, nothing. It made you shake, indescribable sensations rising over your body while your mind struggled against the audacity of so much ignorance. 

You had wanted to scream and accuse and bite, because how dare they not know of the galaxies trauma, your trauma. How could they be untouched by the death and horror that everything you knew was wrecked against. When your outrage wore away after two long weeks, you quickly recognised the advantages of their oblivion. In seclusion these people hadn't heard even one story or legend about your kind. Your spitting grief had remodelled to opportunistic plotting with a dizzy fast turnaround. 

You decided to stay in the naive village, taking advantage of their hosting nature and apparent stupidity. The ploy worked to you a little while, but then you were shown that not all people are so easily kept under thumb. Looking back you blamed your grief over how you used the farmers, but blame doesn’t point to any sort of truth.

They'd sent the boys in at sundown and by your exhausted estimation, it was now some minutes past midnight. The woodland was vast and dark, a mazy mostly uninhabited place. If they weren't murdered by the orcs they would likely get lost in the forests consumption. 

Of course, the moment you had your dark thought there was a great happy stir in the villagers, all of them moving as one to mob the shadowy transport. The boys stepped off it, unscathed, and turned to the gathering.

All the figures were too far off for you to hear their voices or understand their expressions, but you could feel them. If enough focus was put behind it, if you caught your messy mind and kept it from wandering, you could sense the people around you.

You weren’t able decipher clear thoughts or emotions; often times all your mind would brush against were auras, the full composure of someone’s feelings. Auras were murky mostly, the only times they outlined visibly to you was in communal settings; gatherings like the one by the forests edge, and you could feel that.

Dread, gelatinous heavy and oozing with despair. It pressed into you like suffocation, simultaneous with a falling drop of your stomach. What had happened in the forest you didn’t know, but by the fast dispersion of the exhausted crowd, you supposed it wasn’t vital or devastating enough to stay up for.

Letting yourself relax back onto the flats of your feet, you lean your ear against the wood of the door, holding your breath to listen. You can hear walking, hushed and quick, it came toward you, but even as it bore close there was no heaviness to the gait. Omera.

Backing away from the entrance, you hear the wooden chock, which propped it shut, being yanked away. The panel opens outward a crack. Long dark hair leaned into the shadows of your confines, the moons light rubbed against tired brown eyes.

“You’re awake.”

The softness of her voice is a familiar lull to you as you take a seat on the bed.

“Yes, I couldn’t sleep until the boys got back.”

You spoke to infer knowing, trying to slip Omera into telling you what she knew without needing to ask. 

“You were watching us again?” Her words come unimpressed.

Backing up on your bed, you let out a heavy breath. “There's nothing else for me to do here, I’m afraid.”

Stepping deeper into your room, Omera’s slipper tapped the marble into rolling. She recognised it quickly as one of her daughter’s few toys.

You speak on it so she doesn't have to. “Winta’s an empathetic person. You’re raising her well.” 

You weren't speaking just to flatter, you believed what you said. Memories of how malicious and sharp you were at the girl’s same age still stood out clearly to your minds eye.

Picking up the glass pebble, Omera pockets it, a mild smile on her lips. “She is very kind.”

She was staring at her feet as she spoke, tone flat from fatigue. 

“Would you step out with me for a moment? I’d like to see where you think we should start digging.”

Your eyebrows move to straddle high on your temple. “You want me to help you map out the trenches? Right now?”

Lifting her head and pressing knuckles against its brow, she nods. “Yes, I’m sorry. I know it’s late but I would be grateful for the peace of mind.”

Standing, you put your hands together and present them to be bound. “I hardly have anything to do tomorrow. May as well get it over with soon as we can.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Omera’s voice is muffled as she leans out the hut door to retrieve the fibre woven rope that kept your hands from taking possession of anything they shouldn't.

She was usually quick with the binding, fast but gentle, so your stomach reared at Omera sudden methodical passing of knots around and under one another before pulling them tight. You chuckle, stiff and uneasy as she finished her weaving.

“That's going to take you a minute to undo when we get back, Omera.” 

As you spoke she tugged shorty on the four-foot tail of rope that linked you to her. Smiling calmly, she scoffed her own constricted laugh.

“Sorry, force of habit. Come on.”

Omera never dragged at you during afternoon walks; usually she would step alongside you, serene and elegant as a Loth Cat whilst you lumbered heavily between krill ponds, unsettling their surfaces with careless stomping. But now, as she passed the threshold of your prison there was a bite at your wrists from the ropes. She was rushing, striding far ahead of you and causing disturbance in the cool, moon dappled air.

This was wrong, she was wrong; you pull back, digging your heels into the soft earth only having moved five paces from your hut. Omera tries to ignore your blunder and keep on her way, but you yank at the rope this time, mind made up that you won't be moved until you know what she’s not telling you. Omera’s back tenses, she doesn’t turn to ask what’s wrong, instead winding your leash around the palm of her hand several turns like she was bracing for your fight. Just as you open your mouth to demand an answer, her shoulders cringe inward, both hands held firm over the rope. You use your full body’s weight to try and pull yourself free but Omera only stumbles as you desperately thrash your arms.

Turned around by your struggle, you can now see the regret clear on her face as she calls out to the night. “Now!”

The shadows flanking you come alive and swarm to swallow you up. You were grabbed by your head, arms, elbows, held steady and still as more and more bindings are bitten into your skin. Overwhelmed by dozens of strong hands restraining you to the point of smothering, you weep, shock pulling tears from deep seated stoicism. You didn’t trust. It wasn't in your harsh nature to live venerably; but for Omera to be in on this plot stung you.

Pushed down by the shoulders, your knees hit grass; ropes were looped around your middle to secure your arms tight against your ribs. Everything worked in slow motion now, blurring around you like a dizzying time lapse. You felt the press of fabric over your lips then a stabbing tug as a gags knot was tried into your hair. Your body wants to struggle but your mind pointed out that even your strongest efforts would be useless against so many tethers. 

“Get her to the transport, Peter. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Omera’s voice is still clear through your ears ringing. Lifted to your feet in a hurry, the strong arms of who you assume to be ‘Peter’ drag you to the still running carriage. Perhaps you would regret your scuffed kitten limpness later, wishing that you had kicked your legs out with the last little bit of fight you had in you. But as you were lifted like a bride then sat amongst creates and empty krill baskets, there was no defiance or drive in your body, bones, soul.

Resigning to fate wasn’t a familiar sensation. Before Sorgan you had slashed your way out of predicaments, brutalising captors and vandalizing opponents with how you would mutilate them. A key difference was that now you had not the weapons or physique to fight unfairly with.

Your blood buzzed while your heart thrummed as lungs panicked. You wanted to guess what Omera had planned for you that required so many restraints being cast and wound around you. The swelling revulsion in you hurt, it throbbed and you couldn’t think around it.

“Do you know the coordinates?”

The question was asked over your shoulder in a man’s voice as the transport tilted lightly to its right. Omera stepped over the tall edge, seating herself a foot away from you, brown eyes very carful to avoid looking into yours.

“Yes, I’ve got them. The boys think we should skip berry bush pass and detour along the stream.”

More weight rocked you as Peter piled at the front, close to Omera.

“No. We’ll stick with the map as it is, there’s no sense in risking detours.”  
Folding the length of her dress under knees, Omera settled herself against a crate, back facing you.

“Very well. Whatever gets this over with the quickest.”

Your vision is fading in and out, blood straining for air as the gag hushing your mouth also muzzles under your nose. You had submitted once already to your dealt hand, so there was no rational in lashing out to fight your kidnappers now.

Air thin and restricted to your thrumming body, you settle the crown of your head against a crate at its right side, closing your eyes to stop their strobing. Letting yourself become overwrought with panic would only serve in taking away your clarity.

When the carriage moved forward with a shudder to break into the whispering darkness of the forest’s tree line, you curled back from its shadow the moon cast. You kept balling your limbs up and away from the inky bleed of gloom until you could shrink from it no further.

When the shadow began to slink its tendrils up your feet and to your ankles, you felt your fate seal with consuming certainty. Karma had spent years trying to catch up with your evils; now that you were in her grasp and she would be sure to make up for lost time.

~~~~ A ~~~~ 

It had been a long while since Din slept laying down, nearly a week/. So the Mandalorian found himself surprised at how well rested his body felt when Sorgan’s sun came out over its treetops. There was no crick in his neck or tightness to his shoulders from the strain of holding his heavy body upright for hours on end.

The canvas bed deposited into a storage slot just long enough to house Din’s height wasn’t overly comfortable; but it felt like luxury to the man it cradled as he sat up and stretched his arms in front of him. It was a very un-Mandalorian thing to do, but Din couldn’t help groaning at the blissful pop of his spine as he reached for his toes, no armour to chafe or restrict him as he relaxed.

It was chastised to so enjoy being free of the helmet; a protective and identifying clan symbol that should be worn proudly and without ire. Din allowed himself a short deviation from The Way as he itched an un-gloved finger at the side of his nose and edge of his moustache. Yawning, wide and languorous so his tongue’s tip curled upwards, the man laced strong fingers behind his neck as his knees drew together and towards him.

Pressing the crown of his head to kneecaps, Din mimicked a self-soothing posture he had often taken during his first years as a foundling. Curled like a baby still in the womb, he used the weight of his arms to sink his head further down against his legs until he could feel a stretch right through the length of his back.

After a minute or two of letting himself compress into a relaxed bundle, Din sat back up slowly, drawing his finger against the grain of his hair from the nape of his neck. He should cut it soon; only the day before, pesky pieces had been poking in his eyes getting stuck at his mouths corners.

Most Mandalorians liked to cut their hair as close and clean to the scalp as they could. It was the more practical choice given they had no one to impress and wore their masks day in, day out. When Din would sweat, panting in the deathly swelter of his Beskar, he vowed many times over to shave off his hair and moustache the moment he had his razor in hand. But no matter how the memory of clammy discomfort weighed on him, Din could never go through with cleaving away his mane.

Tawny bay curls grazing at the roof of his metal bunk, Din opens the security door by touching his palm to an internal panel. He blinked rapidly against the sting of bright morning light that lifted through Razor Crest’s storage bunker. It felt nearly too spacious without any bounties in carbonite or crates of rations piled floor to celling in precarious columns. Cubic cargo nets hung limp and concave with nothing to cradle, and for the first time in years, the right hand sliding door had nothing crowding it closed.

Linking fingers together and extending arms over his head, Din could see how his gun ship once would have been able to house upwards of thirty standing troopers. In the decades since getting it, the Razor Crest had seemed to become smaller and smaller around its owner, slowly closing in as though it had the intention to suffocate him. There were days when Din dreaded returning to its claustrophobic innards the same way he feared placing his mask back on when he had first taken the oath. But now as he stood with forearms lent on the ladder that was immediately in front of his bunk’s hatch, Din felt like he could sprint full force to the far wall and not reach it for minutes.

Maybe it was dew to the natural light burrowing down the throat of the ship in warm luminesce, or perhaps because of the clean unfiltered oxygen smelling like forest and earth; but Din couldn’t think when he had felt so at home in the Crest as this. Though, it wasn’t only fresh air and sunlight the lonely man owed his feeling of comfort to. The Child, now his Child, made Din keenly aware of a deep buried need for company. Even existing in silence with the foundling was gratifying enough to make him feel whole and warm again.

He didn’t dare let himself consider how glorious Kuill’s quite companionship could have been to him if only the gentleman took his offer of employment. The baby’s company and antics would do him well enough for now. Walking to the ‘fresher Din’s footfalls were even less material than when he wore armour, bare feet whispering over metal floors that should squeak under his strong weight. Side stepping into the booth whose narrow doorway had never fit around his shoulders head-on, Din didn’t need to look as he used one hand to turn on the shower whilst the other undid the bowed drawstring of his night trousers.

As the lower portion of his rarely utilized sleeping clothes made a nest at his ankles, Din lifted away his long-sleeved flannel to join them. A tick cut along his jaw at the smarting ache still perishing his shoulder from where the Mud Horn had thrown him out of her den. His shoulders were unbalanced against the rest of him. Zori had always reminded him in his training to be mindful of balance within his body. While pressing a palm between Din’s shoulder blades to right his posture, she would remind; ‘Your arms are strong, but you must use all your form. Use your legs. Use them to push and punch and leap like I do. Always keep your body in balance’.

He tried to keep her teachings close to his heart, but as Din trailed fingertips along a still pink scar belting down his abdomen, he noticed how tapered his hips had become. The deep cut v of his naval was defined as clearly as the abdominal muscles above it, all boxed tightly in a collection of six. Din’s pectoral muscles weren’t as overgrown as they had been a month before when he was becoming excessively dependant on his upper body. In the weeks between bounties he worked to catch his legs up with the bulkiness of his top. It was progressing well, then Din rescued The Child and he didn’t have time to waste getting his body back to even cuts of mass.

The aesthetics of a Mandalorian’s figure were secondary to its functionality, but Din sometimes found himself vain over his body. It was hardly sagging or shabby for a man his age, not that her could clearly recall that precisely, but he felt It to be somewhere around his late thirties. Perhaps Din kept his hair long for the same reason he admired his physique; a deep hidden desire for romantic companionship. Memories of his parents love to one another caused Din to aspire for the same as long as he could recall. It may be foolish to hold out hopes, but Din needed something to aspire for.

Stepping into the shower, Din leant all his exhausted weight up against the stalls wall. Closing brown eyes, he let himself pretend that the warm jets pelting down on him were the gentle, seeking hands of woman who loved him.

~~~~ A ~~~~ 

Hours of travel had taken your drifting conscious through acres and acres of forest. At the journeys beginning you had forced yourself pick between trying to memories the route of trees that would lead you back to the village, or putting yourself to sleep. After twenty minutes of trundling, the green trees and grey rocks all looked identical to your wracked brain, so the decision to doze was made for you. Sleep had come in cold, shallow strokes. Any movement or sound would slap you awake with a rearing lurch. In all the hours the transport had been edging through green you must have only salvaged your starving body a few pathetic minutes of proper rest.

You ached with stress, bones freezing from the inside out. You had been muffled in one of your fitful, delirious napping’s when the carriage stopped at a clearing. You hadn’t awoken when Omera and her associate whispered a plan together. You didn’t stir as the sun came out over the horizon. Not even the glittering calls of Sorgan’s brassiest birds had disturbed your doze. You should have been awake and afraid and planning a fight. You ought to have been more of an animal at your companion turned captor. But something greater than your better logic or Omera’s keen planning had kept you asleep that morning. Something celestial beyond the veil of atmosphere shrouded around you decided that what laid in wait for your future was sealed. This was where you were meant to be, and you would be given no chance to fight it.

You woke to a loud conversation between two voices, one you recognized, the other foreign.

“We know you said the credits weren’t enough so we’ve brought you a down payment.”

Omera’s voice lacks any of its usual hush as she speaks a proposal.

During a phase of your hopeless attempts at falling properly to sleep on the bumpy speeder; you had sacrificed the vantage point you had being propped against a crate to instead lay flat on your back. While it had been easy to scoot yourself forward on you behind then rest your shoulder to the shuttles floor, sitting yourself back upright with hands and elbows bound was quickly showing to be impossible.

“Our village will house you, provide any food or supplies that are needed, and pay you five hundred credits. All we ask in return is that you discouraged a small group of raiders in their harassments of our farms.”

From your disadvantaged pose, you could see only the rusty tub edge of the transport with all its scratches and scores. But even without your eyes to guide you, the edge of Omera’s voice let you picture her staked stance and tight shoulders.

“No.”

Modulator was your first thought, taken over quickly by male, then followed with guttural. The sound of the word makes you want to sink yourself down into the cold metal floor, have it swallow and seal you into itself like carbonite. Shivers of goose flesh lift your hackles and make you frame judder.

There is a crisp, light shifting that you imagine was Omera passing her weight from one foot to the other, and then a throat is cleared.

“In that case, I have one last offer for you.”

The man said nothing back to Omera this time, but when you heard a crunch of heavy boots coming toward your right side, you began to strain at the ties chafing your wrists. The effort was as useless as it had been the first time you attempted breaking free of the bindings, but you kept at it until a sharp figure cut into the blue sky overhead.

Peter had to lift you out of the craft by your armpits given how your legs now flailed. Your calves scraped over the edge of the speeder as you shook your head no, no, no, no. When the collar of your boot caught on the same place where your legs grazed, Peter yanked at you to dislodge the hindrance. When you shriek at the torn sensation flaring in your ankle, he drops you to the ground, entire weight of your body thrown to a shoulder.

A second muted yell grates out of you from pain as you struggle to right yourself upright on already bruised knees. An obviously inexperienced Peter reaches for you in a fast fumble, presuming your boneless scuffling an attempt at escape. Scuffing you by a fist full of hair, the man manages to lift you without falter this time, getting you on your feet evenly then pushing you to walk forward.

The vantage now given to you by being off your back allows sight of a grassy clearing, one of very few in the forest wide enough to house a ship as goliath as the silver beast resting in a crouch before you. LAAT republic gunships, while useless in firefights, could travel fast and carry large hands of crew. The vintage build of republic shuttles was dependable and well worth their cost of maintenance. Old things meant to last lasted, whether they be weapons, clothes, or ships. Outmoded machinery showed off a height of consistent wealth that could only be earned by the extremely rich or endlessly brutal.

Bug-eyed at the still sleek craft, you didn’t see its imminent owner where he stood five feet from Omera, clad all in unsnuffed armour, inspecting you. His head moved along with your staggering in a smooth motion of rotary movement so refined he looked to have the neck of a Convor. Peter shoves you along, both his worn hands tight at your shoulders, holding you firm and close to him disputed your stunned compliance. He knew you hadn’t spotted the Mandalorian yet, and sensed that when you did all your soft edges would remodel into fighting sharp steel spikes.

Still steered by the man at your back, no attention was paid to where your feet fell as you buffered dumbly from the new kick of adrenaline fluttering your senses. The grandiose ship only manages to distract you from your priority of escape a few short heartbeats before your mind moves to a new question. Where was the ship’s master? You had heard him speak, observed how steeply he’d put Omera on edge, so it confused you that you couldn’t see him. Squinting at the tree line, a shrub near the ship, then the deployed docking doors, you spotted nothing.

Omera watched you as you searched, seeming perplexed at how you moved your head but not your legs to try and run. Peter walks you closer to the woman, seeming to indicate from over your shoulder that she should take a hold of the loose lead dragging between your feet. Omera does, bending at the knee she rushes to grapple the ropes into her hands, looking over her shoulder at something with a twinge of anxiety in her brow as she worked.

That was when you saw him, cutting out his tall figure from where it stood against the ship’s sliver camouflage. Arms at sides, thumbs hooked through loops in a utility belt, a Mandalorian’s beskar caught the morning sun in a matte glisten unique to its metals. Your chest collapses in a clutch of white heat, knees locking to collaborate with your heels as they dug down against the soft dirt. Both Peter and Omera had been braced for your horror. Pulling you forward with all her strength and weight, Omera grit her teeth as the rope stung her hands when you yanked back, likely strong enough to break skin. At your blindsighted back, Peter kicked your knees forward, the combined push and pull making you collapse to the ground with a thick ‘thud’. 

Peter is quick to pin you while Omera doesn't let up the tension of the rope. They are both panting while shock stills the air in your lungs. Splayed like a deer on ice, you stare up to the man looming far above you. He stared back to you, chin tilted down and head inclined to his right. The cut face of his Mandalorian persona looked like it was glaring, brow set low over the slim T visor, cheeks sharp enough to slash. There was no mouth on the mask, just a further strip of black visor. Panting loudly in your struggle to breath, you wonder at how such a simple design could be so intimidating, the distracted thought likely your mind fighting to keep you from total panic. 

The Mandalorian judged you with the nous of a predator assessing its prey’s worth. Before he can form an uninterrupted opinion of the woman cowering on her knees, Omera devises to speak. 

“This is our downpayment to you. She's healthy and a hard worker, probably worth about five thousand credits.”

Drawing his dispassionate gaze from you to Omera, the Mandalorian fixes her with a hard question.

“What use would I have for a ‘healthy hard worker’?”

The woman flushes, but doesn’t falter. “We don’t think she’s much older than twenty.”

What a smart way to answer such a confronting jibe without speaking words that would dirty her mouth. 

Looking back down at your gaged, bound, and shivering form, the man has one last query. 

“What ‘ll you do with her if i don't take the offer?”

Omera draws tighter on the rope. “If you don't want our work we’ll contact other mercenaries.” 

There is a tremor to her voice, like the idea scares her. The Mandalorian looks back down to you.

“I’ll take the job.”

And with those four short, quiet words, your fate was sealed as Omera passed the lead of rope to your new master’s expecting hands.


	2. Authority

Omera couldn’t look at you as she continued her negotiation with the Mandalorian. She kept her eyes tight and front facing, preferring to look right into the consuming nothingness of a black glass visor than at your quivering body by her feet.

“We live a few hours from here by speeder. There’s more than enough room if you would like to ride out with us?”

You were staring at silver shins and shivering on your knees. Omera felt her throat threaten tightness around her next words. She couldn’t go back on her sin now. It was done, you were as good as dead, and she had her daughter ‘s future to consider. 

“No. I’ll take my ship. Do you have a flat plot of land large enough that I can land in your village?”

Omera dug her nails to her palms when she saw your frame wretch forward at the bounty hunters words. What he would do to you in the dark privacy of his gunship she didn’t want to envision. Omera’s not wanting to visualise the evils awaiting you didn’t stop her mind illustrating them in vivid and vicious detail. 

Omera’s clearing her throat seemed to only make its constriction worse as she thought over the Mandalorian’s request. 

“We- yes, there’s plenty enough room for you to park your shuttle out the back of our homes.”

He glanced down to the rope held lax in his right hand as she spoke, posture stiff with impatience. The brute likely couldn’t wait to haul you into the ship and tear you apart with his hands and teeth. Omera’s throat unclenched with the sudden and driving urge to vomit over her boots.

“What direction is it?”

In her state of choked guilt and panicked reconsideration, Omera found that a very hard inquiry to think up the answer to. 

“We live… Peter, do we live to the South o-“

“Just point.”

The gritted interjection makes both Omera and Peter flinch. Quickly swinging an arm to behind herself, Omera straightens a timorous finger to show the man what she expected he was asking for. 

Omera could feel him following her gesture with a burning gaze that weighed on her skin like something physical. The Mandalorian nodded, small and slow, before gathering the rope of his new pet closer in his grasp.

“I’ll be there in an hour. You start ahead.”

Horror froze over Omera’s blood as she dropped her arm and looked back to the bounty hunter sharply. 

“Why an hour? I thought travel was faster by air?”

Lifting his gaze from where it had been distracted by your cowed shoulders, the Mandalorian made a small but forceful indication to their surroundings. 

“Have to reload all this first.”

Blinking at the crates around her, Omera took a moment to realise that the man had been starting to set himself up a camp of some sort. When she tried to muddle over why a bounty hunter would come camping on Sorgan, Omera ran into a wall of nauseating confusion. As with regard to his intentions for you, some most selfish part of her soul whispered that it was best not to ask. 

“Would you like us to help?”

The question came out as some bizarre last-ditch effort from Omera to put off the inevitable event of leaving you completely alone with this mercenary. Her stomach writhed as the man shook his head.

“No. I’ll do well enough on my own.” He takes a step to his right, as though to begin the task at hand, but then observed the expression of confusion Omera wore. Shifting back to where he had been, the Mandalorian elaborates.

“I’ll be at the village in a hour. The two of you start ahead and inform the rest.” 

There was no give in his tone, no opportunity to find compromise or do anything other than what was commanded. Omera’s feet start to move her of their own self- preserving volition, Peter followed along with her. Soon they both stood by the speeder, loading themselves in with quickness so as not to risk irking the dark warrior glaring after them. 

When the carriage moaned into motion with a shudder, Omera closed her eyes tight, biting her lip against the want to whimper. The sacrifice she made for her daughter was as unforgivable as it was necessary. 

“Its all for Winta. Everything for Winta.” 

The affirmation was whispered against the palms of Omera’s trembling hands like some evil wish. She wouldn’t regret this, she couldn’t regret this.

~~~~ A ~~~~ 

You shake like a leaf in gale as you watch the Mandalorian’s feet, listening with ears that burned as Omera sold you deeper and deeper into your slavery. How could she do something so evil to you when you hadn’t committed even one grievance against her? Unfairness was present in so many facets of your life, but as you heard the groan of the juddering speeder you realize that your circumstance is more than unfair, it’s cruel. It was made all the curler that fate hadn’t decided you would fall prey to the hands of hunter, it was the will of a scheming villager that put on your knees at the mercy of a mercenary. 

You hadn’t forgiven once before in your life, and as the uncertain touch of a Mandalorian settled along the tops of your shoulders, you vowed to hate Omera as long as you lived. Boldly lifting your head from where it had been slumped, you look to the black glass of a delicate tee visor, the glare of its silver brow setting your posture tense. The hands that had been at your shoulders slowly, carefully, moved to hover over your upper arms. You could feel the tension in his posture too, an unsureness that didn’t seem to fit the commanding words he’d been directing to your abductors seconds before.

Your gaze didn’t waver as hands reached down to grasp at your arms, hot leather gloves feeling too abrupt against your frosted skin. You flutter, shoulders locking tighter toward one another. His fingertips ease into the malleable flesh of your upper arms, you breath in sharply, heart reminding you that you weren’t ready to be touched. Being unspoiled and clean as a young woman in a galaxy crawling with filth who would seek to exploit you is an achievement you take pride in; but with the transfixed way that warm, heavy fingers trailed down the length of your arms, that purity felt horribly threatened. 

The Mandalorian’s exploration of your skin came to a slow stop when his hands reached your raw wrists. Three thick snakes of rope, each doubled up on the other, left you feeling a stinging throb against the heels of you palms and backs of your wrists. Lifting the knotted bundle to inspect, the hunter was plainly careful to not touch your sore skin, taking hold of your numb fingertips when he wanted to adjust the injury during its inspection. 

The check-up was conducted without a word from the Mandalorian, you watched his helmet closely throughout as though you could stare through the beskar to assess his intentions. Brining hands back to the sharp wings of your elbows, the bounty hunter tested your willingness to stand by holding you steady and slowly rising, lifting you along with him. Feeling your stung knees freed from the ground, you struggle to find your feet, body feeling detached and dumb at the commands you fight to give it. Seeing your blunder, the man held you tighter and stood still until you had found your footing.

He didn’t let you weigh heavy in his hands for long as he began to walk backwards up the ramp of his ship, glancing over his shoulder for a moment before moving you with him. Fumbles In your own aloof footsteps made no hindrance to the Mandalorian’s speedy progression as he held you steady and upright by both elbows. You couldn’t have fought back if you wanted to, your soul felt as though it was cleaved away from your body and left floating overhead, watching what happened to you with interest, but no intention to help. 

After checking that both your feet were flat and firm on the ground, the bounty hunter let go of your right side, turning away to clear a clutter of objects off an alcove meal time table. With him moved out of your immediate view, you saw the interior of where you stood properly. You were at the centre of well-illuminated, empty cargo hold; your eye drawn to gently fluttering rays of light that bled through from what you knew was a cockpit. Above you where diamond shaped, steel archways, angular and strong as they held up the gunships ceiling. 

Swarms of dust caught themselves in golden rays, floating serine as they were left to their own devices in the glazed morning sun. A metal ladder well polished by use fed down from the glass-domed cabin. Behind its bars was a blank wall with three horizontal pill shaped yellow lights lined along its top most part. Glancing to your right side in an absent movement, you saw an uncovered vacc tube, offered a sense of privacy only by its being tucked slightly behind a jut of wall. The sight makes you suddenly conscious of pressure in your bladder, but you aren’t left to dwell on that thought long as there is a gentle tug at your arm.   
The alcove booth had been cleared, all the clutter previously crowding its table packed away to the second seat. Reaching to support you again, the Mandalorian gently steered you to sit, putting pressure on your shoulders until you eased into the thinly cushioned cubical. You watched him closely all the while, eyes wide and uncertain as he stepped away and out of your view. You didn’t dare move, staying as stiff and still as you could manage while rummaging sounded off to your right. Water ran, a foil sash was ripped open, the gentle tinker of biscuits being put on a plate made your ears perk up. 

When your captor came back to view he carried one plate, a bowl, a glass of water, and a girthy tin of medical supplies in the crook of his elbow. Stetting down the plate, bowl, and glass, the Mandalorian knelt before you, opening the med kit in his lap. Three ration bars, a bowl of brown soup with crumbly freeze-dried croutons floating at its surface, and a glittering, crystalline glass of life giving water. The dirty gag in your mouth had sucked all the moisture out of it, your tongue feeling dry and prickly as a lizard on Jakku. You sit so distracted by the promise and prospect of food that you fail to notice your silent companion pull a hunting knife out from the sleeve of his boot.

He saws through the ropes on your wrists with such a deft quickness you scarcely knew what had occurred when blood rushed back to your fingertips in blisters of pins and needles. Doing away with the unwinding fibre ropes over his shoulder, your host turned his attention to the binding that kept your upper arms constricted to your ribs. The panic you feel at having a flesh cleaving blade so close to the delicate tenders of your stomach is fairly understandable, but your Mandalorian seems to be having none of it as he held you still by a shoulder, quick and deft with his knife to slice away rope that framed under your bust. 

Blood stung and pulsed as it rushed back through your arms, shoulders to fingertips buzzing to fill out your starved veins. All business, the Mandalorian didn’t pause in his mission of unbinding you, moving his attentions to what muffled you with clear purpose. Unlike with your other bindings the knife was not put to use here, instead the man lent over you, chest close enough to your face that breath would have misted against his breast plate if it weren’t stunted. Gloved fingertips felt over your scalp, finding the knot that caught in a tangle of your wild hair and begging to work it apart gently. How fingers could be so nimble under the clumsy deprivation of thick gloves you had no idea. 

When the soiled strip was delicately lifted away from the chaffed corners of your mouth, you felt like a Fathier relieved from the discomfort a metal bit pressing into its tongue. Clicking your jaw and licking around the inside of your mouth, the glass of water looked sinfully sumptuous but even with both hands free, you didn’t dare move to take it. Stepping back from your personal space, your master easily noted your hesitance, nudging the glass towards you before leaving to properly do away with the debris of your capture. You were on the crisp, cool beverage fast as you could rap your fingers around it. 

Swallowing hurt the first few guzzling gulps, but once the needed water soothed your throat, it went lax to help you gorge yourself. The glass was empty seconds after meeting your lips, but you needed more. The soup wasn’t boiling hot, but its bowl was still uncomfortably warm to your numb, clumsy hands as you lifted it to your lips, starting to chug down the watery broth and stopping only to chew the breadcrumbs afloat in it. When the Mandalorian returned from his step outside, you had finished not only the water and soup, but also two of the three ration bars given to you. His stomach turned at how starved the village woman must have kept you. 

You were reaching with trembling fingers for the last morsel when he came back around the alcove corner. You snatched your hand away and settled it into your lap, eyes elevating to his visor as the man reached to take your empty glass. He wanted to tell you to keep eating, but the sight of how your hands trembled, tops of your wrists alarmingly pink, reminded him there were more important things to take care of.

Refilling the glass with haste, the bounty hunter returned to you, placing your drink back on the table before reaching for your hands where they still fidgeted in your lap. When you lean backward, flinching away from his touch, he understands the repulse. Shifting away himself, the man began to work the buckles of his gloves off, needing a sanitary surface before he could touch your venerable, red rubbed skin. You watched it with a deep frown, wet lips tight against one another as he used a strip of sanitary gel to further clean his hands before reaching to you again, palm up in a calm offer. 

He didn’t grab you this time; instead waiting for you to come to him, and as you slowly grazed your fingertips against the rough, tan skin of the Mandalorian’s palm you felt, for a short and unsteady moment, that perhaps fate and Omera hadn’t been so cruel to you after all.


	3. Assurance

You distractedly observe the way your fingers contrasted against the bright white medical gauze wound from your wrists to the palms of your hands, wondering at when and how your fingernails had become so long. The Bacta gel smelled sweet and familiar, soothing your irritated skin as it sealed and healed abrasions with speed no other topical lotion could master. He had used almost the entirety of a bottle of pure Bacta on you, even thumbing some at the chafed corners of your mouth. The memory makes you flush, his gentleness during the application was so clear and cautious not to startle. You took another sip of the fourth glass of water given to you that morning; shoulders lose whilst the Mandalorian lugged another create into the ship. 

He set it down delicately, even though you imagined that he would rather throw the supply boxes back into the hull with speed and roughness. His caution was likely another gesture intended to put you at ease. That was the eighth box, but you could hear no grunting complaint or shortness of breath from the man as he tucked it against the all with a foot, holding your gaze briefly as he turned to fetch another. A year of no contact with the Outer Rim left you in the dark over who was who in the underworld. He certainly wasn’t Fett, the clean gleam of his all sliver armour gave that much away. There were no clan symbols or house crests imprinted anywhere on his person or ship, nor contraband you recognised as Hutt.

The ninth create was far larger than the ones previous to it, but still no complaint came from the Mandalorian. In your expansive hitchhiking experience strong, silent, lone travellers were best kept away from. They either had something deadly to hide, or a tyrannical habit of killing their crew and company. Watching his back over the rim of your drink, you waited for instinct to trial its icy fingertips along your neck. Your gut never let you down before, its sense of danger and foreboding always proving impeccable to any circumstance. Disuse hadn’t taken its edge off, as was proven by your preeminent episode with the villagers. 

Averting your eyes to appear perpetual and cowed when the hunter turned from his work to head out for a tenth box, you let stillness over take your mind, detaching from the thrum of your body for a moment to let clarity permeate through swirling remnants of adrenaline. Reaching out with invisible fingertips to graze along the sharp edges of your Mandalorian’s intentions, emotions catching along his as you found nothing but impasse and what seemed to be confusion under his skin. No heady desire, or want to harm, just perplexity and a loss at what to do. But in your reaching out, you found more than just the Mandalorian and his intents. There was another aura, close enough to make you jump when it found your senses, though not only closeness had you startled, it was the strength behind it. 

Shutting off your reach fast as you could, you clutch a hand over your chest and hammering heart. Eyes open and wide now, you look unmistakeably startled as another create is lifted into the ship’s hold, Mandalorian digging his heels against the walkway to push its heaviness along. Dropping your head and arranging hair so it would block his view of your stunned expression, you begin looking around for the other entity that was so strong in presence. There were nooks and corners you couldn’t see around everywhere, a door at the back of the ship that could be a broom closet or someone’s bedroom. Assessing your surroundings subtly when you felt so bristled by brushing up against what could only be an ethereally skilled force user was suitably difficult. 

As your eyes dart around in search of life they catch on the cockpit. Clarity sets in your mind with a click. That would be where this other person was, sitting with feet up on the dash, waiting impatiently for their Mandalorian partner to sort out his new pet so they could get going to the next assignment. In light of this realization, you decided that when the Mandalorian stepped out you would clamour up the ladder rungs to get a look at this mystical person. This tenth hefty metal box took the bounty hunter a much longer time to secure than the creates previous to it. You sat watching his back, forcing your now healed hands not to fidget with each other. Once he finished with checking over elastic tethers that clipped the box to a wall, the Mandalorian took a breath, shoulders dropping on the exhale. You watch his fingers flutter and flex into and out of fists, observing the motions with mesmerised confusion. 

When he turned abruptly, you didn’t look away swiftly enough, leaving your eyes right where they had been on his shoulders, now his chest and the glare of a visor. Caught staring, you snap your head to look squarely at your lap even though the split second late reflex wouldn’t save you now. He didn’t immediately move, ponderous over your watching him so intently. When he did begin to shuffle his feet forward the Mandalorian came toward you direct and slowly. Gazing at the toes of his boots from under the protecting veil of your hair, you hold your breath for reprimand. None of the mans actions thus far warranted any fear from you, but still as you watched his boots become replaced by knees, you shuffled back on your seat, body tense and drawn tight.

~~~~ A ~~~~ 

Din didn’t know words well. He hadn’t been a chatty child, or snappy adolescent. Wit and humour weren’t tools he learned to wield as elegantly as blades and blasters. A natural introvert, the man was happy to have others talk whist he sat aside, always allowed input but far more content to listen and think. By himself, when he wasn’t practicing the ways of his people, Din would tinker and hobby, carving bodies of wood down to make figures, or stitching a garment so it would better fit him. All through his teenage years, Din was the most obvious and dedicated talent at sparing amongst all his peers, none could best him in a match, not even any adults had been able to slip the boy up once he turned fifteen. 

This Mandalorian’s talents were all in his hands and loyalties, not on his tongue. This is why, even after so many years of existence, Din hadn’t the faintest clue of what to tell the trembling girl traded to him by sleazy villagers. He’d had to take her when that woman threatened she would give the girl to others of his profession if he didn’t agree to the offer. He’d had to sit the trembling, terrified, undernourished creature down and tend her wounds like a hurt animal. That’s what she was, a wrongly wounded beast in need of tenderness and patient, gentle hands to help her. She was still afraid of him as is wise to be, but after he dressed the painfully chafed skin of wrists and given her some proper food to eat, the girl looked considerably more settled with his presence. 

Or, she had been, until he caught her staring at him. 

Whatever those villagers had done to her must be unspeakable with how violently she cowered and shook when Din came to kneel at her eye line for the second time that morning. Hooking away a thick section of her unkempt and un-kept hair with a still gloveless finger, the grizzled man tried to pull words of comfort from his mind to his mouth with any sort of eloquence. 

“You’re- you don’t have to be frightened of me, I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Din’s voice held a startling rawness in its disuse, which he felt wasn’t assisting to soothe away the justified anxieties of his hostage. 

“Whatever the villagers did, you don’t have to be afraid of them doing it again.”

There was no clear reaction from the woman as she remained tense and silent in her seat.

No, words weren’t a strength to Din, but actions were. Standing again slowly, the Mandalorian stepped quietly to the concealed cubby house he had slept in the night prior. Typing in the four-digit code to open its hatch, Din gently reached for a bundle of blankets that cocooned his little green monster. Lifting the Child out of his swaddled wrappings, Din saw that the baby had already locked his dusky eyes onto the girls trembling shadow where it huddled at the dinner booth. Setting him on his waddling green feet, Din allowed the baby to take his time in approaching her. The green orphan was cautious of new people, but never seemed shy in fresh encounters thus far. It took the Womp Rat some time to cover ground with how tiny his legs were, but he was more determined than any humanoid toddler Din met down in the Covert on Nevarro. 

Curiosity was obvious in the Child’s eyes as he drew ever closer to the woman, blunt green-yellow claws groping at her boot experimentally once he was near enough to touch. She jumped in reflex, then went still again, nest of hair continuing to obscure her expressions form Din. Moving his exploration further, the child touched a hand to her calf where it peeked form under her dress. When he cooed at the identifiable human warmness, Din could see the girl’s shoulders lose a fraction. Green-pink petal ears cupped toward the sound of her letting out a breath as the Child held his arms out expectantly. She tensed again, obviously knowing that he wanted to be picked up but not sure if she was allowed to touch him. 

“You can hold him.”

The comment felt clumsy to Din, and as he watched the baby grab at skirts to try and crawl to the girls lap, he began to worry that he’d made the wrong choice in having a toddler take his place in putting an ex-slave at ease. When her hands, shaking and wrapped in bandages, snuck down to hold under the Child’s armpits experimentally, the Mandalorian felt relief heave over him. Picked up and huddled into the woman’s warmth, another happy chirp reverbed from the baby as he began to play with her willowy fingers. Sitting up now with hair mostly away from her face, Din could see the gentle surprise in her expressions. When he was finished fidgeting with her fingers, the Child leaned up to inspect her face. He touched her nose, cheeks, chin, the woman bowed her head so that he could be thorough and examine her bushy eyebrows, too. 

Looking back over his shoulder to Din, the baby was obviously confused at the differences between his guardian and this other new person under his grabby fingertips. It would be good for the baby to see a face besides Din, even if only for a few days until he took this mystery woman back to wherever her home waited. Yes, only a few days, then he’d have you somewhere safe and out his hair.


	4. Legal disclaimer

I have just realised that as of yet I have placed no explicit Legal outlines on my work, and so am taking a moment to state the following: 

I do not claim to own anything within the Star Wars universe, characters, planets, languages, or otherwise.

I do not claim to own the Mandalorian, The Child, or any of the shows other characters. 

I am not making any profits off of this fan fiction, but may utilize it's existence and platform in the future as a way to promote my own original written and digitally published works. 

Things that I DO own in this story are: this story's title "Brought In Warm", the character of reader, all of her dialogue, backstory, and any further obviously original ideas surrounding her. I also own the concepts of this fan fiction aka reader being given to the Mandalorian as part of a payment for one of his jobs. 

If any other fan fiction authors wish to use a similar structure to that of my story, they may given that they ask my concent first and only base the plot or their fan works very loosely off that of Brought In Warm.

This story may NEVER be reblogged or posted to any other platforms by anyone but myself. 

Thank you for taking the time to read this legal definition of my work, Brought In Warm.


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